


Winter in My Bones

by princess_prince



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Character, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes-centric, M/M, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:16:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_prince/pseuds/princess_prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought that he was winter and you were summer, fire, smoke, heat.<br/>He didn't see, he didn't know. You were tainted and he was pure, so it was for you to know, to protect the secret, to conceal and to save him from your poison.<br/>You've known from the start that this would be the beginning and end of the two of you. You were warned, but you did not run, you did not flee. You stayed—<br/>(Why is this wrong? Why are you wrong?)<br/>—'til the end of the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter in My Bones

You thought that he was winter and you were summer, fire, smoke, heat.

He didn't see, he didn't _know_. You were tainted and he was pure, so it was for you to know, to protect the secret, to conceal and to save him from your poison.

You've known from the start that this would be the beginning and end of the two of you. You were warned, but you did not run, you did not flee. You stayed—

(Why is this wrong? Why are you wrong?)

—'til the end of the line.

***

Why not run away?

If you're fire and he's ice then it makes sense for you to have to keep your distance. Too close and you will destroy him. Too close and he will burn like Icarus. It would be better if you left. He wouldn't be in danger from you if you were gone—fire can't hurt ice from a thousand miles away.

He's your mission. To keep him safe is your mission.

You can't run away. You'd like to, some days, but it's not in you. You don't have the strength. Deep down you __want_ _ him to be poisoned, sick, __wrong_ _ like you because at least then he will be yours. Because at least then the taste of you will be the last thing on his lips when his winter is thawed by your brimstone summer.

This is not wrong this is the truest thing you've ever felt how can you keep lying to yourself—?

***

They do not understand him. They don't even _try_ to. They do not see how good he is, how true, how pure.

Only you see. Only you lie awake at night adoring him and hating yourself for being too weak to stay away because then...because then...

But you're all he has. And what are you, without him? (Nothing.) What does he have besides you—beside your bones, your heart, your soul?

The world sees him as unworthy. Weak. Sickly. Cold. Unfeeling. Only you see him for what he is—only you know—

He is not like them.

(He does not know that you know. He would rather suffer in shamed silence; that has always been his way. Stupid. He cannot see that he's perfect, with or without desire.)

You are broken because of how badly you want him, redeemed only by your mission to protect him from your poison. He is broken because he does not want anyone, because he cannot, because he doesn't know how.

In a way you're perfect for each other.

***

It wouldn't be so difficult if he had someone else, you think. If there was a reason to stay away. But there's never anyone. You're all each other have. It's how it's always been, probably how it will always be. Neither of you fit in this world; him the artist whose eyes can't see color, and you burning hot and fierce and wild and untamed just beneath the surface, only him stupid enough to stay close to you, you who are the wild animal.

It wouldn't be so difficult if he hadn't chosen you.

(Deep down you know you wouldn't have it any other way.)

***

(Kiss him until his lips bruise and he gasps for breath. Laugh with him until neither of you know why. Pray for forgiveness. Pray for forever. Pray for just one stolen moment from that poisoned chalice you must protect. If you touched him you'd leave bruises. Do not steal what does not belong to you. Leave him perfect. Leave him pure.)

***

Think of it like an apple.

 __The_ _ apple.

You are the guardian; it is you told him leave it be, but he never could. Too damn curious for his own good, oblivious for a while but never forever.

One taste is all it takes.

(Eventually, he realizes that this is not friendship and that he has been blind to both love and red.)

***

The thing is, it's a thousand times harder to keep away once he's realized he's in love with you.

But you __have_ _ to. You can't give him what he wants. You're poisoned. He would be destroyed.

He's too good to be brought down by you. So you pretend not to see and pretend not to look. You tell yourself it's for the best. And you almost believe it.

***

There is one night. Things are almost different.

You are about to ship out, about to leave him. He is frustrated, with you, with himself, with what some would call his frigidness. (You know it is not so but you cannot tell him.)

It's your last night, the last chance. Alcohol runs through you like fire; the world is taking on a soft edge and you feel despair.

He asks you, just once. Not with words. He asks you to give him your poison bite, presses his winter mouth to yours in one last plead.

(He is too close, you will destroy him, if you are the fire then he is Icarus and Icarus cannot fly too close, Icarus will die, you cannot let him die, you have warned him off a dozen times and he __does not realize_ _ _._

This is not love. This is not truth. Not for the two of you. Not now)

You are weak.

There is a moment where you almost give in—you almost kiss back—you are alone, you are safe, the world does not have to see one tainted heart claim another for its own—

But you __can't_ _.

You leave. Things are not different.

His heart is broken.

To be honest, so is yours.

At least he is safe.

(After the war. You will see him after the war.)

***

The thing is, you were wrong all along. You were not the one who was fire. He is fire, bright and shining like a brilliant star, and you were lit by him along. You are winter. You are wrong, weak, pathetic, not __good enough_ _ for him.

Why does he keep choosing you? Doesn't he understand how worthless you are? The only value you've ever had is from him!

***

(James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557.)

Imagine being helpless. Imagine straps holding you down on a table and nowhere to run and the most assured sense that something is __not right_ _ with you something is different they have changed something why is it so __cold_ _ —?

Dream of him. Dream of his eyes, his mouth when it is smiling, his hands when they are drawing—

Wake up to fear and needles and darkness.

(James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557.)

***

He saves you, and everything is different.

 __He_ _ is different. He was never really ice, you see it now, but now for the first time the world sees his fire and you are __so angry_ _ because it was your job to __protect_ _ him and now it's all you can do to stay at his side and fight with him.

(Good becomes great, bad becomes worse. What do you become? Who are you now?)

***

When you find out what happened—what __really_ _ happened, because of course he, being himself, dodged the question with a one-liner about “joining the army”—the first thing you think is "Fuck you, Erskine."

(You can't bring yourself to say it out loud to Steve because it's clear he worshiped the guy. And why not? Good becomes great. He's __good__. More than good. But you're...you're...?)

Because how dare he? How dare he look at the fire in Steve, trapped in his little body, and decide he had the right to turn him into a weapon?

Of course, Erskine's already dead, so there's not really any possibility you'll get the chance to kill him yourself.

You still want to, though.

***

Sometimes you think that you were unbelievably stupid, to think you were the one who burned bright like fire, to think that you were the viper poised to strike if only he got too close—

You were wrong, always wrong. He burns, he shines, and the only thing that keeps you from being consumed by cold is his heat.

When he kisses you again, in the dark where no one can see to stop either of you and you are safe, you are too afraid (of losing him again, of failing him, of ice consuming you completely) to say no. Take the walls down. Give in. Burn like you've been longing to forever and to hell with the consequences.

He tells you he can see all the colors now, because of what Erskine did to him.

He tells you you were always his red.

***

You thought you would be the one that would would possess him, that he would be the one that needed you with all his being.

(Dream of heaven. Dream of hell. Pretend it's all right. Pretend you are whole.)

You are the one that needs him. When your vision fades to black and all you hear is Zola's reedy voice in that room where you are strapped down on a table, he is the one that brings you back and grounds you.

(He still believes you are a hero and it breaks your heart because you can feel the ice and you know it's not true.)

You are the winter lover, you are the one that kisses him desperately until you gasp for breath; even then he is your air. He is your lifeline, your salvation. You can no longer believe that this is poison because it's started to be the only thing you believe in. He shines like the summer sun, the only light you can see any more.

(You are starting to forget how it felt not to feel leaden and cold and weighed down by ice in your chest. He is the only thing keeping you alive. From the outside, the kisses you steal and the nights you spend holding each other would seem meaningless, but even so it is him that keeps your nightmares at bay.)

***

You shake with cold some nights.

The end is so close you can taste it.

The least you can do is protect him. The least you can do is go out knowing he will be safe.

(Do not pray for salvation. It is not for you to be saved. It is for you to make sacrifices.)

***

This was always inevitable. This was always the beginning and the end of the two of you. He would burn himself out trying to save you from the winter, if you let him. _You cannot let him._

He has not yet realized it is for you to die for him.

***

Take up the shield, protect him one last time—this is the end of the line for you.

(It's just...you thought it would be 'til the end of the line for both of you. But it's all right. That was not to be, not for you.)

You're afraid of dying.

You cry out to him as you fall—

(It's not fair you don't want to go you have to stay with him he's your mission you must protect him you were wrong you are not the poison he is the poison he will die if you don't stop him from killing himself you're not ready to go yet he still needs you _STEVE_ —!)

—but it's too late.

***

You thought you were dying because the pain was so bad.

And then They came.

***

Perhaps you weren't all wrong. Perhaps once you were the fire.

That time has past now.

Now it is for you to be reborn in ice.

***

(Your mission is to protect your mission is to preserve your mission is a skinny blond boy with skinned knees who can't see red—)

Your mission is to serve.

"Wipe him again."

***

(Protect your memories. Remember your memories. Remember __him_ _ . He is the beginning he is the end he is __everything_ _ without him you are dust you are the ghost of a mouth on his you are the empty space beside him you are HIS you belong to him you were always Icarus there was never anything else for you it is __him_ _ it is always—)

***

You think you might have been a person once.

You don't really remember.

***

(If you're not careful they will always find a way in and you were careless you poisoned yourself you clung to him so they used his truth to taint you now what are you you are not fire you are not ice you are dead you are clockwork they've replaced your heart with metal gears and you helped them you fool you should have fought _Steve_ would have fought—)

***

Sometimes there's talking in your head about someone called "him." But you don't really know who "him" is anymore.

Eventually They make the talking stop, so it's much more quiet now.

Better.

Quiet is better. Right?

***

Your mission is to kill whoever they tell you to.

So...you kill whoever they tell you to.

***

There might have been a start and a finish, once?

Now there's just sort of a lot of middle. The missions are best. You get to be in control. You have a purpose.

It's good.

***

They tell you your name is Winter Soldier.

(They call you the Asset and cut you to pieces inside your head but they give you a mission so—?)

You understand why, sort of. __Soldier__. You follow orders. Everything runs like clockwork, sort of, anyway—there's a lot of things that get in the way and make everything hurt, so it's messy and complicated.

(No one will tell you what the broken parts are. But they might be...you? Who you were when you were a person. But—but you only remember clockwork gears and puppet strings. So you might be wrong.)

 __Winter_ _ is because winter is when everything dies. And you're dead, mostly anyway. They try their best to help you by keeping everything dead, by saving you, but there are all these living pieces. You understand that the living pieces are the ones that make you feel all the pain all the time—everything's sharp and jagged and in pieces, except when They help. It gets worse the longer you're awake.

So that's why you're glad when They let you sleep.

***

The thing is, all the parts of you that aren't _machine_ are broken.

A hand—that's easy. Close, open. Pull a trigger. Break a bone.

Minds are different. They echo. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes it feels like the broken parts are poison.

Once you think you begged Them to help you. They told you it had to hurt. You had to be broken so that They could save you. And now that They've saved you you're safe. You don't have to think. You can just be Their arm. No thoughts. No poison. No echoes. No pain.

It's just—you can't stop the thoughts.

***

(Do you remember the boy who ate the forbidden fruit?)

(I don't remember anything. Who was he?)

(You knew him.)

(Did I?)

(He was your mission.)

(That's...not...)

***

When you sleep you do not dream.

(Was there a time when you did?)

When you're awake it's mostly pain from the broken pieces, narrowed down to one objective: your mission.

One purpose. One fight. All you've ever known. All you've ever needed.

But it feels like there used to be something else.

Huh. " _Feels._ " Weird word.

Anyway, even if you did dream, you wouldn't remember.

***

(Do you remember the boy who flew too close to the sun?)

(No.)

(He's who you used to be.)

(I'm not anyone. I'm Winter Soldier. I'm the Asset.)

***

Sometimes...sometimes it seems like...maybe there was someone else who saved you? Maybe there was someone else trying to fix you from being broken?

Probably not. People don't care about machines. Ignore all the fleshy parts and that's what you are—a machine. Don't need to feel. Don't need to think.

(Why would anyone want to stay with __you__ _?_ )

This way, you're perfect.

***

Don't feel. Don't think. Just do. Carry out orders. Fulfill the objective.

Target locked. This is your mission. You are Their arm; They are your mind.

This way, it doesn't hurt.

Killed the one-eyed man. Now kill the other two and you can be free forever. Saved. No more thinking. Just sleep.

The Winter Soldier doesn't have preferences, but...you think you'd like to sleep?

Doesn't matter. Accomplish mission.

***

This is outside mission parameters. This is...an insult.

You are Winter Soldier. Who is __she__ , this redheaded woman?

***

(You were a __person_ _ once.)

(NO.)

***

There is a man on a bridge. He's your mission. He's your target. Kill him.

(Bucky?)

(Who the hell is Bucky?)

Mission not accomplished. Echo echo echo echo something is wrong something is not right __you were a person once_ _ NO—!

It's just.

You thought he was smaller.

They'll take the thought away. They'll make you perfect. It's not easy. You're filthy and disgusting and broken. But they still try, they still try to save you—

Echo: — _ _how can you keep lying to yourself?__ —

...What?

***

(He was your air he was your everything you _knew him_ how could you forget him?)

(What?)

(You knew him.)

(...I...knew him?)

***

You knew him.

You knew him.

Query: Who was I...before?

No answer.

Query: The man on the bridge...who was he?

No answer.

Huh—

**SLEEP NOW SERGEANT BARNES**

...sleep now...

**YOU DO NOT REMEMBER THE MAN ON THE BRIDGE.**

—don't remember the man...

**REPORT ON YOUR MISSION.**

But you knew him.

You knew him.

***

(It feels important. You knew him.

You know they'll take the feeling away because to make you perfect they take __everything_ _ away.

Funny how that makes you feel terrified like dying over and over you want to remember _knowing_ him you don't want to forget—)

***

You forget.

***

(You used to be willing to die for him is that why you're dead now is that why you're broken and in pieces)

***

He's your mission.

Finish it.

***

“You  _ _know__ me.”

(NO, I __DON'T__ _!_ )

“I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend.”

(YOU'RE! MY! MISSION!)

“Then finish it—”

***

The thing is, you __can't_ _ _._

(Winter Soldier follows orders Winter Soldier is __dead_ _ and __cold_ _ and __empty_ _ )

You were __someone_ _ before. The thought comes from nowhere and tastes like bitterness and copper on your tongue.

( _—'cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line, pal._ )

He's...he's important. You don't know why, but he is.

You might have been someone that someone cared about once.

Suddenly, you'd _like_ to remember.

***

(Sometimes you could swear that you can still feel your heart beating even among all of Their jagged and broken clockwork.)

***

He's your mission.

_Save him._

***

You watch him there, until you can see him breathing, and then you leave. But you have a funny feeling like something has changed now. Or like something has stayed the same. Or is it both?

***

(Remember when you were a person remember when it was all you could do to keep the two of you alive remember cold winter nights and summer kisses remember him remember __yourself_ _ _—_ )

Are you still James Buchanan Barnes?

You don't really know.

But you'd __like_ _ to, eventually.

***

Time passes the way time does: slowly.

It's not easy, on your own. Without Them, all the pieces are starting to pull at the edges again. Push too hard and you might break. The machine is running down. This is the last mission. Run away. (Or don't?)

What's your mission now?

Query: Who was James Buchanan Barnes?

No answer.

Seek more data.

***

James Buchanan Barnes wears your face.

You feel a tugging at your mind like the beginnings of remembering.

***

( _Remember his eyes when they were lit up with smiles_ remember the feel of bone crunching in your hand _remember being afraid that you were Wrong-other-sick-a monster_ remember silencing children's screams _remember who you were_ remember who They made you—

Are you James Buchanan Barnes? Are you Winter Soldier? Which is real? Which is true?)

You have nightmares when you sleep, now.

You're not sure if being dead was better or not.

***

Good becomes great, bad becomes worse. (You become ice.)

You aren't sure who said the words. It's an echo. Meaningless, except...is it?

Doesn't matter. Maybe no one said it. Who can tell what's real, anymore? No mission. No purpose. Not good enough. Not __perfect_ _.

(Did you ever want Their perfect, anyway?)

Maybe nothing's real. Maybe all of it's fake.

(Echo: Bucky?)

You might have meant something to someone once.

Why?

***

After a while you seek him out. If you think about it you're not sure why, except...except you need to know for sure you might have been a person once. That you're not just a broken machine _pretending_ to be a person.

(Flickers of feelings echo in your mind like fear-anger-hate-longing? Somehow it almost feels like winter is starting to thaw, at least...slightly?

It's been so long since summertime.

And you hate the cold.)

***

You find him when he's asleep, which is good because you don't want to see him awake yet. You don't want to see him looking at you.

(Only as you stand unsteadily in the doorway do you realize that you don't really know when the last time you slept was. Have you ever really slept? Or did They always just freeze you again?)

He's facing away from the door. Your metal hand clenches into a fist and then unclenches. __He's your mission__ , whispers the voice. __He's your mission__.

But you're not sure why anymore.

***

You stand there in perfect stillness for a long time, without moving or swallowing or blinking.

(Count the knobs of his spine through his shirt, one, two, three, four. Is that how they're supposed to look? Straight in a row like marching soldiers?)

You watch the rise and fall of each breath he takes, sometimes just to remind yourself that he is alive, he's real, you didn't dream him, sometimes to make sure that he is breathing. It seems important.

Why would anyone care about you? How could they? Why bother trying putting the pieces back together, why bother trying to stay? Look at you, you're fucking insane, you're barely a person, you see things that aren't there and things that are and can't tell the difference is any of it fucking _real_ —?

Watch him breathing. Slow, deep breaths. Sleeping breaths. Count them. One. Two. Three. Four.

***

When you walk around the bed to see him from the front you have to be careful not to block the moonlight, in case he wakes up.

He looks tired. People are supposed to look peaceful, aren't they? When they're asleep? He looks tired and worried and __sad_ _. His eyebrows are drawn together and his face looks pinched.

Why is it he's _so important_? What is it about him that's just so... _so_...

You fall to your knees and have the strangest desire to cry.

How is it you feel like you've lost something when you've never _had_ anything except a voice in your head and a mission?

How is it you feel like _you've_ been lost and he might—and he might just be your way home?

You leave before he wakes up.

***

Three days later you find him again.

He's waiting for you this time. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Still facing the window instead of the door.

You freeze and then curse mentally because __fucking hell__ , you should have realized he wasn't asleep before you broke in. Should have checked or—or __something__. Sloppy. Bad. Not perfect. (To think you used to be so good at this.)

“Is it better if I don't look at you?” He's staring at his hands. You could swear you can hear his heartbeat.

Just who _is_ he?

( _Steve_. He's Steve, he's Steve, he's _Steve_.)

You have to find out some time.

Walk around to face him. Don't look him in the eye. (Who knows what you might find there?)

He releases a shaky breath and lifts his head. You look at him without meaning to, see something like relief on his face.

“I thought for a second I'd dreamed you,” he says, smiling at you like you're the sun and he's been in the dark for years (or like he is trying to hide tears).

(But you're...you're winter. You're cold and broken and poison. It doesn't make sense for you to be the sun, does it?)

There's a pain in your chest like the heart you thought for sure was dead and replaced by ice and metal gears and he's smiling like he _trusts_ you like you make him _happy_ like he—

Like he—?

Your left arm (the metal one They gave you to kill with) curls into a fist involuntarily. Blackness surges at the edges of your vision and he's still staring at you with that idiot grin on his face and it takes you three tries to uncurl your hand, to release the breath you were holding, to sink to the floor and let the sobs you've been holding loose.

(His presence feels like summertime. He feels like—like home. Like you used to have a home.

He feels like being alive.)

He follows you to the floor and wraps his arms around you and holds you close. “It's okay,” he says, his voice trembling and but holding steady. “It's okay. We're okay. We're finally okay.”

For a second, as the sky starts to brighten in that tiny room, you start to believe him.

***

You stay.

***

Some days it rains and you sit with him at the kitchen table and watch him sketch. He talks, sometimes. Doesn't demand a response, though. Those days are nice.

Some days memory slips away from you and all the languages are wrong and you curl up into a tiny ball on the floor whenever you hear a tiny noise and you can't let him touch you or you'll flinch with your whole body and he tries to hide his disappointment but _imperfectly_.

Some days it feels like you might have been a person. You can say the things that make Steve laugh and tease and look almost hopeful. And it might be a lie, but it might not be, either. You're still not sure if you were him, James Buchanan Barnes, but sometimes you still—sometimes it seems like you might have loved him? Steve?

If you knew what love is. If you ever did.

Maybe you were never Bucky. Maybe you really are a machine. Built to imitate, not to be. What kind of machine tries to become a person? How broken do you have to be to delude yourself into thinking you're something you're not?

Maybe that's what love is. Wanting to be better.

***

The thing is—

Oh, fuck it all.

***

But who _were_ you? If you were anyone.

(Echoes in your head, echoes in your brain, but nothing that tells you where to start to rebuild what was broken.)

You're the only one that knows how to fix me, you want to say to him. But you don't, because that's stupid and fucking cheesy.

You knew him. He knew you. You know him. Does he know you?

(Red seeps into your mind like water through cracks. Red is the only thing that stays. You are their fist. Break a bone. Smash a skull. Pull a trigger. Muffle the screams.)

No. He doesn't.

***

You know if you asked him he'd tell you about—whoever you _used_ to be (James Buchanan Barnes).

But you can't trust him (Yes, you can). If what They told you for so long isn't true, how can you trust him to be honest? No one else to confirm. No one else to know. He could lie. Make you believe something wrong.

(Never mind believing he would never. You're running away again.)

Or __you_ _ might be wrong. Maybe the truth is different. So many pieces of memory. You might have them together wrong. Some things might not be real. Some things might have never happened. Some things you know _did_ happen but you've forgotten.

(The things you remember—fire and passion and light— _ _seem_ _ real? They seem truer than anything else. But that was always how They did it. Take what seems true, make it most false. So you can't trust yourself or him.)

***

_(Who was I?)_

The question lingers in your head like a bad penny.

But now there are no answers.

***

Sometimes you want to know why he stays. You're trying, you're really fucking trying to be _him,_ whoever he was, James Buchanan Barnes, but it's not working and Steve's always disappointed and why even bother you're just going to fail again and again wouldn't leaving be better?

He looks at you like you're his reason to live (stupid) and just says (softly) easier isn't always better.

What if you're _not him_ (James)? What if you can't _be_ him?

He (Steve) shrugs. (You're my friend.) He has a smile like the sun.

That night you dream about forbidden apples and serpents and wake up with a memory on your lips like the taste of summertime.

***

(Sleep for a hundred years, awaken with a kiss. Winter cannot stay where summer is. Let him cleanse you with fire. Remember how you used to be.)

***

There's a story you used to know. A fairytale. (Not real, but...maybe it doesn't matter.) __Sleeping Beauty._ _

After one hundred years, the prince comes and ends the sorceress's curse. Wakes up the girl. True love.

Only...what if it wasn't?

One hundred years. Everyone she knows is dead. No one knows who she is anymore. Not the prince. Not anyone.

So how could anyone really wake her? How could anyone know who she is enough to _love_ her?

They can't.

***

The two of you start going out and about in the world, sometimes. (Friends don't let friends stay at home by themselves forever, laughs Steve.) "Out and about" apparently means Steve nagging you to "Come help me shop for groceries, Bucky," and "We need to buy you new clothes, Bucky; no, you can't just keep stealing mine if you insist on pulling your arms through the sleeves of my shirts and stretching them out," or "Yes, we have to go buy drywall because you broke the entire bathroom again, Bucky," and on one memorable occasion, "Stop flirting with the neighbor's cats, Bucky." But it also sometimes means going for walks and visiting Romanoff and Wilson and a slight, deaf archer who seems perpetually distraught by the existence of coffee, and sometimes it means actually going and getting coffee in ridiculous newfangled coffeeshops mostly frequented by tired-looking students.

(You start using the word __newfangled_ _ to describe everything as soon as you discover how much it bothers Howard Stark's kid, Anthony or Tony or something, who despite being physically older than you considers himself far more up with the times and modern than either you or Steve. Or anyone else. But to an even greater extent than Howard he is apparently not all bad. So.)

Thus, you begin to adapt to the world. As the Winter Soldier—the __asset_ _ —you were taught to be a machine, not a person. Taught not to care about anything but your mark.

Up close like this, in the ashes of Their programming, the future looks awfully big and unfamiliar.

But you've got Steve by your side.

Why is it that that thought is so—comforting? Why does it feel like being warm all over and safe and __home_ _?

You have a feeling like you might know why but you shy away.

When you dream now, it is mostly about Steve. That is, when you don't have nightmares about everything else, you mostly dream about Steve.

You have a feeling you've been dreaming about Steve since before you remembered being a person, but it's—it's still hard to pick everything apart, so it's hard to tell. You might be wrong.

***

You can't tell what's real and what's not are you __crazy_ _ or was it real are you imagining that when he looks at you he sees—

he sees—

***

(They also have __really_ _ expensive coffee in the future. The past is still sort of in bits and pieces but you remember enough to be shocked and vaguely terrified the first time Steve buys you coffee.

“I know,” he says later, understandingly. “It's not easy.”)

***

There was someone who wanted to protect him. There was someone who saw Steve for the hero he was, who knew him before he was a weapon. There was someone that hated himself for being in love and pretended he was doing the right thing when he was being a coward and there was someone that Steve loved—

Is it so hard to believe you used to be that person?

_(Who are you now—who were you then— who are you now— who were you then—?)_

***

There was a boy who told himself stories to make himself feel better about being in love with his best friend. There were children who played soldiers.

(Come home, soldier boy. The war's over.)

Who are you?

You're Steve's. You were always Steve's.

Bucky loved Steve, and you at least __remember_ _ loving Steve, so that __must_ _ mean that you're Bucky. Or you were.

(It feels like revelation. It feels like relief. It feels like falling. It feels like flying. You were someone. You are someone.)

Right?

(People can be fixed, can't they? Steve will know how to put you back together again, won't he?)

***

(Hide, hide, __hide_ _. Keep him safe. He doesn't have to realize. The world already sees him as worthless; don't let him love you and be more wrong.

Except.

Would it be wrong? Would it have been wrong for him to realize just how much you meant to him?

No way to know, now.)

As more memories come back, in bits and pieces and dreams and nightmares, you wonder—why did you try so hard to stay away?

***

There's a story you know, about a girl who was cursed by a witch to sleep for one hundred years. Or maybe it was forever. And the witch builds a wall of briars around the girl, so that no one will ever be able to wake her up.

And so she sleeps forever.

You wonder if she dreamed, at all. Did the witch tell her she __had_ _ to be asleep to be saved? Did she tell her that no one else would ever care?

You break three of Steve's glasses by accident before you learn to stop holding them with your left arm.

***

There are so _many_ things you remember—

—a drafty apartment in Brooklyn where the heating never worked

—“No, Stevie, _this_ one's red, how you're going to get by in art school, you punk?”

—staging the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark to make it look like an accident

—“Sometimes, I think you _like_ getting punched.”

—a funny little redheaded girl speaking words you both do and don't understand

—“I had him on the ropes.”

—a man like a rabbit with round glasses

—James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557.

—the feeling of being broken into a million pieces and reassembled all wrong

—“I can get by on my own.”

—a redheaded teenager imperfectly fearless shielding your mark with her own body and _you know her_

—“The thing is, you don't have to,”

—the feeling of having a heart and not knowing what a heart felt like or that you still had one or that a heart could break

—“'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line.”

***

The thing is you know all of the pieces from the middle but you're not sure you remember the beginning and you don't know how it ends.

***

You used to know this story about this girl, a princess, or maybe a warrior or a scholar. And she was trapped in this sleep in a castle surrounded by thorns. But she wouldn't let that stop her, so at the end of her hundred years she woke __herself_ _ and she took up her father's old sword and she fought her way out of the briars herself because she refused to be unmade—

***

(They used you,) you say one day.

“Hm?” He's making dinner. Sort of. Company is apparently coming. The red one, the archer, Sam. You've met them all before. And accidentally attacked them all before. Also sometimes not accidentally. But you've __apologized__ , it's  _ _fine__ _,_ _ _Steve__.

(When they were breaking me at first. They couldn't. So they used you.) The words aren't coming easy to you. (They made me think you didn't exist. Or that I didn't. Or that you hated me. I don't think they made me hate you, though. I don't think they could have.)

He pauses in whatever he's doing to turn and look at you. “I'm sorry.” He means it. You can tell.

(I don't think they tried to make me someone else. I think they just made me into a weapon. That would've been alright, except for all the broken pieces.) You stop. You leave. Then come back.

You help him make dinner.

***

(I know you, I think,) you say to Romanoff during dinner. (Did I know you?)

She stares at you for a long moment, eyebrows pulled together and head tilted to the side. “Yes,” she says. “You did.”

_(Hurry, Natalia! Get out of here!)_

You feel your eyebrows push together. (Natalia.)

She doesn't break eye contact. “Yes. I used to be.”

_(Sergei? Sergei, what are you doing? You said we were leaving—!)_

(I'm sorry,) you say, your voice trembling. (I'm __so sorry_ _.)

She shrugs. “Mental manipulation makes us do things we can't control. I—and Clint—know that better than anyone. It's fine.”

She thinks you mean about when you were sent after her and Steve. (No, it's—that's not what I meant. And it's __not_ _ fine, it's—I __failed_ _ you!) Your voice raises in volume until it's a shout. You're still looking at her, in frustration, trying to make her __understand_ _ , but as for everyone else Sam is probably discreetly concerned and Steve less-discreetly concerned and Barton probably just extremely confused because that's kind of his thing.

"I know what happened," she says. "I was there, remember? You were crazy to even __try_ _ leaving, especially as compromised as you were. As both of us were. And there were probably dozens of agents waiting to subdue you even if their trigger didn't work. You're not to blame. Don't try to put that on yourself. There's no point."

Your chair scrapes on the floor as you stand and flee to the kitchen. Behind you, you can hear Barton saying, "Aw, hell, what even was that, Nat?" and Steve getting up and starting to follow you.

(I'm fine,) you say to Steve, without turning to look at him.

But it's not true.

(I won't fight you. You're my friend.

 _YOU'RE! MY! MISSION!_ )

You go for a walk.

***

This is the story Natasha tells:

Once there was a girl cursed to sleep in a red room for her entire life. But she doesn't; there's a man that wakes her up and tries to save her. He fails to fight the curse and turns on her. She's sent back to sleep, but the second time she's woken, she's strong enough to fight her own way out, and one day she comes back to help him.

***

This is the story Steve tells:

Once there was a boy who was cursed to be frozen for one hundred years. And at the end of those hundred years, he finds out that a prince cursed to sleep in a castle has been waiting for him ever since he's been asleep in the ice.

So he fights for him. He fights for this prince until the end of the line and he never gives up.

After all, how could anyone else know how to save him?

***

This is the story you know:

Seventy years of sleeping in ice and existing as a weapon without a mind couldn't make you forget him.

Having your heart replaced by clockwork gears and your will replaced by puppet strings couldn't make you stop loving him.

Being cold and broken and not knowing who you used to be couldn't make you stop knowing him.

 _(I love him,)_ you say to yourself; it feels like waking up from a lifetime of nightmares.

 _(I love him,)_ you say to yourself; it feels like remembering how to be alive again.

 _(I love him,)_ you say to yourself; it feels like being whole again.

You stop running. You stay. And you wait for him to find you.

***

You sit on a park bench and stare at the stars, waiting, until the sky starts to lighten just slightly. That's when Steve sits down beside you with a sigh of something like contentment. It's mostly just a sigh, though.

He looks at you, looks at the stars (which are just starting to wink out), looks at you. He is waiting for you to speak to him. Just waiting. But you think—you _know_ —that if you didn't say anything, even then he'd still wait.

You slouch until you can rest your head on the back of the park bench and turn it to look at him. He looks back.

He's really fucking beautiful in the starlight.

“In all my memories I'm in love with you,” you say. He slides down until he's on the same level as you, rests his head on the bench as well and smiles as if to say _That's encouraging, in all my memories I'm in love with you too._ But he doesn't say it; he just looks at you. Waits. Waits like he's always been waiting.

You don't know how else to say it, so you wet you lips with your tongue and say it again. “In all my memories I'm in love with you.” You want to reach up and touch him but you're afraid to because he's sitting on your left and _what if you break him—_

“I don't even always remember you,” you say. “Most of the time I didn't remember that I used to be anybody. But I was always in love with you. They couldn't take that away. I didn't remember what it felt like to love anybody, but...I loved you. I always loved you.” You break eye contact to look down at his hand and to carefully take it in your own. The metal has to be cold, but he doesn't complain.

(Did I ever tell you the dumbass stories I used to tell myself to keep away from you when we were kids? I used to get so torn up about loving you. And not even for me, just for you, because I was sure you'd love me back if I gave you half the chance and I couldn't stand...couldn't stand you being wrong too.)

“I love you,” you say to him; it feels like coming home. "I love you, Steve Grant Rogers."

He smiles, smiles so brightly that you could probably go blind from looking (but there are tears in his eyes), and says:

“I love you, too, Bucky.”

_I love you, too._

***

The sun is coming up.

Later the two of you will walk home with arms slung around each other's shoulders like seventy years ago; later you will laugh and tease and steal kisses in the sunlight; later you will play board games with Natasha and Sam and Clint and splash through puddles in the rain; later, Steve will tell you it's okay for people to be who they are now and there's a word for what he is.

Right now, you press a kiss to Steve's mouth for the first time in almost seventy years; right now, you break down crying and let him kiss each tear away; right now, you have _finally_ come home.

Your name is Bucky Barnes. You were once called the Winter Soldier. And being in love with Steve Rogers has chased away all your darkness.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And now the end has come! I hope you found this little fic enjoyable in some way, or at least tolerable, because that might mean it was good and that would make me really happy. But anyway. If you want to find me on tumblr for any reason, i exist over at thegayraven.tumblr.com.


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